Cause and Effect
by thegirlinthedeathfrisbee
Summary: ONE-SHOT. John decides that he should definitely stop drinking... or perhaps should drink more. Sequel to "The White Noise Aria". Fluff. Pre-Reich. R/R s'il vous plait!


**Author's Note:** Another sequel? From moi? Yeah, alright. I kind of like the idea of making sequels. To SOME of my oneshots. Definitely not all of them. Anyway, this one is kind of a sequel to "The White Noise Aria". One I've been keeping on my blog without posting here because... well, I was a little bit caught up in "To Poisons and Their Antidotes", wasn't I? Anyway, point is, I've been asked for a sequel to "Aria" and so I decided to give anyone who is interested enough might like this? I don't know. ACTUAL point is... here you go.

* * *

_What am I doing in your bed? -JW_

_I could ask something similar. SH_

_I'm serious Sherlock. -JW_

_As am I. SH_

_You don't know why I'm in your bed? -JW_

_I know why you're in my bed. SH_

_Care to explain? -JW_

_Not particularly. SH_

__John sighs, drops his phone on his stomach, and closes his eyes. He's in Sherlock's bed. He's mostly naked. He feels like he's been dropped out of the back of a moving vehicle. And Sherlock is being unhelpful. _That's pretty typical though, isn't it?_ John thinks with a small smirk. His phone chirps against his skin.

_It's where you decided to sleep. SH_

John's eyebrows crease. He remembers Mike's party. He remembers the drinking games. He remembers many, many shots. He doesn't remember getting home. He doesn't remember Sherlock's bed.

_Why would I do that? -JW_

_You were intoxicated. SH_

_Where did you sleep? -JW_

He sends it without thinking. Would it bother him if Sherlock had been in bed with him? No, if he's being honest with himself, it wouldn't. Though admittedly, with him being as naked as he is, it probably should bother him. A little bit. Which bit bothers him more, he wonders, the possibility of it happening or the possibility he doesn't remember? Another chirp.

_I didn't. SH_

__Something between relief and regret flood John's stomach. He finds himself swallowing.

_You let me sleep in your bed. -JW_

_You wouldn't move. SH_

_How nicely did you ask? -JW_

_I didn't. SH_

Another thought occurs to him. _Just because Sherlock didn't sleep doesn't mean he didn't spend the evening in bed,_ His brain seems to sing, full of innuendo. Sex? Sherlock? No. There's no way. Besides, John would remember that, wouldn't he? Sherlock would've said something by now, wouldn't he? His jaw clenches. Maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he'd be waiting for John to say something. Maybe he should ask. John types the words slowly.

_I wasn't too much of a pain in the arse last night, was I? -JW_

He kind of hates the way he's phrased it._ Too much innuendo. _It gives him a funny, dizzy feeling in his stomach. Sherlock takes entirely too long to reply. It makes the dizzy feeling in his stomach climb higher, until he feels like he may vomit.

_You're a pleasant drunk, at the very least. SH_

_That bad? -JW_

_Clingy. SH_

He pauses thoughtfully before typing in his response.

_How clingy are we talking. -JW_

He waits with bated breath. Sherlock is taking a very, very long time to reply. He doesn't like it. It makes John more and more nervous. He's about to sit up and pull on his trousers when he gets a reply.

_More so than you'd be willing to hear. SH_

Oh God. _Oh God_. John is panicking now. His head is a little bit dizzy and his stomach is definitely lurching and his temples are screaming in pain. He finds himself more upset at the idea of not remembering such an event occurred. He taps the keyboard on his phone quickly as he can.

_Try me. -JW_

_You wouldn't allow me to leave until you fell asleep. SH_

_How'd I manage to keep you from leaving? -JW_

He has kind of started to remember. He recalls sitting on the kitchen floor beside Sherlock's feet, his arm wrapped around his ankle. He sort of remembers falling into Sherlock's bed. He can remember the way the comforter felt beneath his fingers when he patted the bed. He vaguely remembers his arms around Sherlock. His jaw clenches and he waits.

_Sherlock? -JW_

_You promised you'd sleep if I did. SH_

And then the memory hits him. It slaps him across the face, almost literally it seems, as it surfaces to the forefront of his mind. He suddenly recalls—very vividly—the gut instinct to lean forward. He recalls his arms slipping around Sherlock's waist. He recalls his lips pressed against Sherlock's lips. He can remember just how surprised he was to find that Sherlock's lips were soft. He can remember the tint of wine in Sherlock's mouth. He can feel Sherlock pressing forward, can feel the wrapping of Sherlock's long, slender fingers around the back of his head. It causes his heart to leap into his throat.

Maybe it wasn't real. Maybe he was just dreaming. He looks back to his phone and hesitates momentarily before responding.

_Funny question here. Completely ridiculous, in fact. But…did I, by chance, kiss you? -JW_

__He holds his breath. He waits. He waits some more. Finally, he gets a reply. He's expecting a paragraph, about how preposterous it would be, about how Sherlock wouldn't have allowed such behaviour, so on and so forth. But when he opens the message, a single word stares back at him.

_Yes. SH_

__Oh. Oh._ Oh. _He squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. Oh bugger. _Oh bugger bugger bugger._ He takes a deep breath, releasing his nose finally. The pain in his head throbs. He kissed Sherlock. _He_kissed Sherlock. Damn it all. He picks up his phone once again, exhaling slowly. He's not sorry, he knows that for certain. It was something he'd been secretly wanting to do for some time, but he had never thought he'd actually do it. He'd been contented to merely _think_ about it.

And worse than all that, he'd practically forgotten. Hadn't even been able to properly _enjoy_ it. The one time he got the gall to do it, and he's buggered it all up.

_Oh, Christ. I'm really sorry about that. I really am. I'm really, really sorry. -JW_

_What for? SH_

_For kissing you. That was out of line. -JW_

_Was it? SH_

John stares. His eyebrows crease. One lifts. Both lift. He's not really controlling his facial expressions anymore. His muscles seem to be going through every confused expression they have in stock. Finally it just goes blank. He doesn't know how to reply. What? He started a few different messages. _'Of course it was. I had no right._' and '_Well yeah obviously_' and '_Not really, I've been wanting to for a while now.'_ but instead he sends off something much more simple.

_Wasn't it? -JW_

__"I can think of a few other scenarios that would've been much more 'out-of-line'. I think a kiss is actually quite near the bottom of the list." he hears Sherlock quite suddenly. John jumps, lifting the blanket over his chest, covering up to his neck. His head quickly swivels to meet the voice at the doorway, and the sudden movement causes him pain, but he meets Sherlock's gaze anyway.

"Oh?" he replies, his voice still hoarse from sleep.

"Certainly. You could've threatened violence upon me. You could've wrecked my belongings. You could've insulted my intelligence." Sherlock says this with a smirk. John matches his smirk, a little, watching as Sherlock comes into his room. "All in all, a little kiss is by far the least damaging."

"Surprised you didn't punch me." John says.

"That would've been highly irrational in such a circumstance."

"Why didn't you just… tell me from the beginning?"

"Answering vaguely allowed you to jog your own memory."

"But I've already got a splitting headache."

"At any rate, I hadn't been planning on confessing it."

John's eyebrow quirks. Sherlock pauses only momentarily, then gazes out of his window. John sits upright, still pressing the comforter to his chest. "Why not?" he asks. Sherlock doesn't move, except for his hands, which wrap around behind him and grasp one another. "Wasn't strictly necessary." he answers tightly.

John is watching him. His back his stiff. He's hardly breathing, it seems. "Then why tell me at all?" John asks.

"I didn't, strictly speaking, _tell_ you anything." Sherlock replies, "You asked a question and I answered it."

"You could've lied, could've said I hadn't. Must've been in my head."

Sherlock says nothing, merely continues staring out the window. John continues to watch him, allows his eyes to inspect every detail. "Unless… you wanted me to find out." he murmurs to Sherlock's back. "Maybe you figured… figured there wouldn't be backlash if I came to the conclusion on my own. Less arguing."

Sherlock still doesn't reply.

"Or maybe you thought I'd be embarrassed. Thought I'd shut myself up. Thought everything would get awkward." He's saying each idea as it pops into his head. He's waiting for Sherlock to respond to something. Sherlock, as it happens, seems to be either tuning him out or completely lost in thought. "Or maybe it was so bad you'd prefer not to think of it?" He thinks he's fairly successful at hiding the disappointment that lingers with those words.

Sherlock takes a deep breath. "Or perhaps," he says, exhaling slowly, "I'd rather not admit the effect it had. On me."

A silence thick enough to cut comes down upon the room. Sherlock continues staring out of the window. John continues staring at Sherlock's back. He notices that Sherlock's fingers are moving, just slightly, flexing and running over one another in small motions before finally becoming still. He wets his lips and swallows before replying, "Oh?"

Sherlock sighs, "Don't play dumb. It doesn't suit you."

John exhales quietly, but can't seem to bring himself to say anything. Instead, he scoots himself over the bed, snatching up his trousers and sliding himself into them. He's not stupid. Sherlock knows that. John has already begun considering what Sherlock's confession means, how it affects their relationship, what his next step should be. In fact, he's implementing his next step at that very moment. He's sure Sherlock knows this.

He's also sure that Sherlock has considered each of his possible next moves.

Sherlock, he knows, has not considered the one he will choose.

He takes a deep breath and holds it in his lungs as he steps slowly toward Sherlock. The tall man before him doesn't seem to move, not even a slight inclination of the head for easier listening. When he is but a few inches from Sherlock, he leans forward. His forehead rests between Sherlock's shoulder blades, just at the base of his neck. He can feel Sherlock's body tense at the sensation.

Then he reaches up and—very delicately—places a light kiss upon the back of Sherlock's exposed neck.

Sherlock audibly inhales. His body stiffens to something akin to stone. John does it again. And once more after that. As he continues to drop his lips to Sherlock's skin, he wiggles his arms between Sherlock's, slipping them around his waist and pulling his own body toward Sherlock's back. For a moment, he's quite nervous. Sherlock's still bordering on statue, and he seems to have completely stopped breathing.

But then, quite slowly, the long, slender fingers pressed into his stomach uncurl. Palms lay flat against his bare skin. Slowly, the stone in his arms begins to relax back into the pliable human form that is Sherlock.

"John, I—"

"What sort of effect did it have on you?" John asks quietly.

Sherlock is silent.

"Is this having a similar effect on you?" John inquires.

Sherlock is still for a single moment before nodding slowly.

"Am I at liberty to assume that it wasn't entirely a _negative_ effect?"

He can feel Sherlock swallow.

"Is it an effect you may be willing to, say, recreate?"

Sherlock inclines his head just barely. It's a very, very small nod. All is silent and still for a moment. John simply holds him, breathing into his spine. Here is where he feels the need to swallow his nerves down over and over again.

"May I?" he asks into the fabric of Sherlock's shirt.

When Sherlock finally speaks, it is but one word, and it comes out dry and rasped, as though he's lost all the moisture in his mouth. "Yes."

John's heart is hammering against his ribs as he slips his arms from Sherlock's body. Sherlock is still unmoving. John takes the few steps from Sherlock's back to his front and looks to Sherlock's face. John can tell he's hiding a slew of things, though his face reads cool indifference.

He doesn't announce it. He merely takes Sherlock's face in his hand and pulls him downward, and they meet at the lips.

Sherlock's body and mouth begin rigid. John moves slow and languid until he feels Sherlock melt into a much more fluid motion. His lips begin to move against John's, slow and steady and… _intoxicating_. John wonders briefly if Sherlock is naturally a good kisser or if he's done research and is executing some list of instructions, but it flits past as Sherlock moves in to take John around the waist.

It takes a moment for them to finally part. Neither let go of one another.

"Similar?" John asks after a moment.

"Spot on." Sherlock replies.

"Positive?"

"Need more data."

John smirks. "Test number two?"

"Three, technically." Sherlock retorts, the corner of his mouth twitching up into a smile. He's already leaning forward, eyes half-closed.

"Have it your way." John murmurs, closing the gap between them for a second kiss.


End file.
